Page 88 of The Song We Lost

I don’t have room in my body for that kind of hurt.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Rachel.

“They’re pushing,” she says immediately.

“For what?” I ask flatly.

“To record. They want the album done now. They’re talking about award windows again.”

Award windows. Like my grief can be paused for a release strategy.

“I’m not leaving,” I say.

I keep walking, the orchard stretches out in front of me, workers moving between rows.

“I’m not leaving her, Rachel, I can’t,” I repeat.

“I know,” she says. “But Bailey… this is your last album under contract. If you don’t deliver, they can make it ugly.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“I don’t care if they make it ugly.”

“I know you don’t,” Rachel says softly. “But you might later. I need you to think this through. I will back whatever you choose, Bailey.”

When I hang up, I don’t go back inside immediately, I walk in a massive loop until I make it back to the house.

Sadie finds me first. She steps out onto the porch, sweater sleeves pulled over her hands.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she says.

I huff a laugh that isn’t funny.

“They all agree,” I say. “Every specialist. Every referral.”

She nods.

“I know.”

“I can fly you somewhere,” I say quickly. “Anywhere.”

“I don’t want to spend my last months in hospitals,” she says calmly.

I freeze.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” she replies gently. “I want to be here. In the home you sacrificed so much to give us. I want to feel her kick. I want to argue about baby names and to eat too much pie and sit in the orchard.”

“I am not letting you talk like that,” I snapped. “I… I can’t… Sadie. Don’t you understand…”

She looks at me carefully.

“You don’t stop living because I’m dying, Bailey.”

I suck in a ragged breath, trying to blink back the tears.